


clean morals

by gabriphales



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Internal Monologue, M/M, Porn With Plot, Single POV, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24615955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: gabriel finds out about the arrangement. his jealousy leads to one thing, then another
Relationships: Aziraphale/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	clean morals

**Author's Note:**

> holy fucking shit i wrote this jazzed out on nothing but pain and misery bc of my period and you can tell

Gabriel doesn't like being suspicious of Aziraphale.

Of course, it's only in his nature to keep a closer eye on things than most. To stand guard, watching over any sign of developing sin. He grounds himself in the practice of it, the system he's made over years upon years of settling into a life on edge. And he polishes the rough edges that might shine through, should he let them make any sort of unfiltered appearance. The unsightly parts of himself, full of the bitterness he's let percolate into absolute dread. Fearing any day now, any second, he'll lose another companion to their own blasphemy.

It's been eons since an angel has fallen. Never once have they strayed away from God's light, not since the War. But that - Gabriel's convinced himself - is only the status quo so long as he _maintains_ it. It's his duty to keep everyone in line. To protect them from themselves, more or less. To teach what gratuitous self-pleasure, delightful hedonism and the like might lead to. After all, one or two minor sins can be excused. But a whole life, a whole _existence_ of debauchery is something else.

Which is where, more or less, his issue with Aziraphale arose. It's not that he _dislikes_ him, necessarily. It's just that he dislikes how Aziraphale carries himself. How he tottles about with such little pride, shrouding the breath of a former warrior - a warrior who _will_ have to eventually rise to that occasion once more - in humble clothes, and a timid disposition. Ringing his hands together, and brushing off Gabriel's concerns with weary, overused excuses. It seems to him, though he doesn't want to assume, that Aziraphale takes more than he gives from the heavenly hive. Exploiting his miracles to an absolute excess, more often than not, for the smallest, most _mortal_ comforts Gabriel can imagine. Nice weather, softer linen, and clean, sweet water.

But Gabriel doesn't like being suspicious of him. So he keeps his criticisms within the barrier of only constructive. There's nothing wrong with giving Aziraphale little hints of how he might improve himself. And there's nothing wrong with being a boss who _cares,_ who checks in on his employee's progress, who wants to genuinely know things _about_ him. To know more than the bare bones, polite facet of himself Aziraphale gives Gabriel every time they're doomed to interact. It can't be Gabriel's fault that Aziraphale doesn't like him. But, decidedly, it isn't Aziraphale's either. He has to be - has to be _shy,_ that's it. Just a bit hesitant, considering how isolated he is on Earth. Away from the other angels, away from Gabriel. If he only gave him a chance, he'd grow to like him. Gabriel's sure of it, he's just _sure_ of it.

Yet, he never does. He's always too stiff, wound up in his own tension. And embarrassingly curt, at that. Gabriel doesn't know what he's doing wrong. What the secret button to mastering hospitality with Aziraphale must be. It's impossible, utterly _impossible_ to make out when Aziraphale will hardly even sit still long enough for him to gauge his reactions. He's all too fidgety, full of nervous tics and shaky hands. Brief, tight-lipped smiles passing by just as quickly as they come.

So Gabriel's entirely unsure of him. That's a given. But he'd never have expected this. He'd never have expected Aziraphale to go behind his back. To covort with the _enemy,_ led mindlessly like a lamb to the slaughter. It's - it's unprecedented, it's _cruel._ Cruel to betray his home, the world from which he reigns. He's only ever known Earth, Gabriel knows, he's terribly seperated from the rest of them. But that doesn't negate a crime so severe as this. That doesn't make it any better.

He can't believe him.

But something keeps him from telling the other archangels. Something keeps him toeing the line between dipping into his own personal sin, and exposing what Aziraphale's done. True to heart, he knows what will happen if he reveals too much too quickly. Falling may be the least of Aziraphale's worries. Clearly, he's not worrying too much about it right now, if he's skipping along hand-in-hand with diabolical forces. Good god, how could he _do this?_ Is this how he's paying Gabriel back for all his gently given advice? All the instructions, and teaching, and lessons he could have denied him. He's been unselfish, kind, _loving._ He's been exactly what an angel should be. How can't Aziraphale see that? And why would he choose to see what he wants from a demon? A creature best met with the tip of a sword, never anything more.

They don't deserve patience. They don't deserve charity. They don't deserve what they'd never give to others.

And eventually, _eventually_ Gabriel realizes something. The realization he hasn't stopped dithering over for days, working his head to exhaustion. It's fickle and uncertain, possibly a step in the wrong direction, but Gabriel has enough faith in Aziraphale to take the step regardless. 

The Principality must be being beguiled. _Deceived._ It all makes sense, considering who he's up against. The Ultimate Tempter, born to the Earth with foul intentions, and clammering words tucked between his teeth. Crawley - or Crowley, as he's grown to calling himself now. Gabriel doesn't give much thought to his name. What matters is his duties, the job he's set to uphold. What could be a better gift to write home about than the temptation of an angel? It's all so very clear now - Aziraphale's the unfortunate victim in this story. And it's up to Gabriel to save him.

He does like being the hero, admittedly. It's not a particularly difficult role to play.

He just has to get Aziraphale to _listen._ Adapt to reason, and take in what Gabriel has to say, rather than pressing it aside. Storing the thought somewhere in a crooked shelf in the back of his mind, and letting it rot there with the wood and dust.

Perhaps - dare he think it - he might play the devil himself. Take on that imprudent role, and steal all the techniques that come with it. He can be a tempter, too. If that's what Aziraphale likes, then Gabriel will do it for him. Gabriel will become precisely what he desires, should desire be the only thing that guides him back to safety, back to _healing._ Recovering from all the damage he's endured, being so close to something so _dirty._ Gabriel can make him clean again. Gabriel can make him whole.

He finds him without trouble in Rome. Leaning up against the very object of Gabriel's fierce distaste, and egging on a response from the demon. Crowley prickles back at him, bristling and irritable. And for a very brief moment, Gabriel considers drawing forth a sword right there. Miracling it from nothing, and crashing upon the scene. But he doesn't - he doesn't, because he has to be subtle about this. Aziraphale will be more likely to give in should Gabriel come to him without straining his boundaries.

So he waits. He lingers distant in the background, keeping watch, just as he always has. His eyes dragging across Crowley's skin, the black of his linen cloth, and _wondering._ Wondering what he has that Gabriel doesn't. The unholy and damned are all too good at tearing everything pure down with them, but even so - why _this_ one? Why this demon in particular? Aziraphale could have anyone, anyone his sweet heart desires. And he chooses this.

(Gabriel rolls the taste of jealousy around in his mouth, and pretends like he doesn't know what it means. He can't acknowledge that. Not with Aziraphale still wanting so little of him.)

When Crowley leaves, Gabriel watches him wash down another gulp of mead. The thin wrist Aziraphale's grabbed onto pulling free of his shaking fingers. Gabriel can see them tremble. He wants to be the one those hands are aching for. Wants to feel what its like to have soft palms, soft flesh, and a soft touch upon him. Something about that longing burns, a shallow simmering in his chest. He presses a hand to the source of the pain, tries to search for a physical way of quelling it. But there's nothing. Nothing he can do, nothing he can work out to make it better.

Part of him, however guilty that part may be, wonders if Aziraphale is the only person who can do more than nothing for him.

Approaching him when he's alone pricks at Gabriel in just the wrong way. His stomach boils over, hot and angry, full of something that he can only define as predatory. Aziraphale acts true to his role, the perfect prey. Jumping at the sound of Gabriel's voice, and spinning on his heel - too quickly, too sharp. He's terrified. Gabriel sickens from it.

Still, he has to keep up the light gauze of a friendly encounter. He isn't trying to hurt Aziraphale, he doesn't _want_ to hurt him, either. Which is an important enough distinction to Gabriel to be worth noting. He has to keep reminding himself of it. He isn't dangerous, he isn't hateful, he's not the bad guy here. He's good, he's _good._ He's doing the right thing. Just - sometimes the right thing is a painful process. That's only to be expected. The road to sancticity is rocky and winding, just as God intended.

(To be hurt is to be holy. To burn is to be cleansed.)

The night is warm and cool, and Gabriel finds it all too easy to excuse his company as a model of concern. It's far too late for someone so unprotected to walk the streets alone, after all. He'll be the one to walk Aziraphale home. He'll be his undesired guidance. And Aziraphale takes to that about as well as Gabriel had expected him to. With pursed lips, and a look behind his eyes that can't be placed, but is all too wild to be controlled. Like a little animal on the verge of running with a broken leg, fleeing free from the very people who want to help it the most. Gabriel only wants to help. And he's going to - whether he's given permission or not.

When he slips his fingers intertwined with Aziraphale's, there's no flinch from the other angel. And it's the softest peace Gabriel could have ever imagined. It soothes throughout his body, strangles the hurt he still has crumbling in his throat. Cutting off loose ends and unspoken words. His mouth heats up, along with the flush in his cheeks. And he realizes, he _realizes_ \- he realizes what he's been trying to avoid for so very long. The way the touch of breezy air passing over his lips makes them tingle and blossom with warmth. And the way his head seems to lighten its weight, anything but heavy while he has Aziraphale's hand in his own. He knows it's undeniable now.

Even worse, he doesn't want to deny it.

"Ah, this is the one. My inn." Aziraphale says, shifting away from Gabriel without letting go. He must be waiting for Gabriel to do that first, then. But Gabriel isn't sure he's strong enough to break apart. To detach himself from somebody who feels like the warmest part of him.

Aziraphale seems to notice his hesitance, because he follows the silence up with, "You can accompany me to my room, if you'd like."

Gabriel brightens up faster than he'd like to admit.

He doesn't get to hold onto Aziraphale's hand forever, however much he longs for it. When Aziraphale leads him up a set of flighty, uneven stairs, they seperate. Aziraphale taking the exit for him, tugging free with what sounds like an audible crack to Gabriel's ears. But his room - his _room_ is worth it. Because the whole place smells like him. The clean linen spread across the bed, and even the wood that lines the walls. Crisp cedar full of the sweetest scent, so heavy as Gabriel breathes it in that he can almost taste it on his tongue.

"I can ask for tea for us both." Aziraphale offers, taking seat on the bed. Gabriel nearly blanches at the concept, but he catches himself just in time. He can't seem judgemental. He'll peruse Aziraphale's hobbies with a level of enthusiasm just high enough to keep things easy between them. That ought to please him, Gabriel thinks. 

"Certainly," he says, grinning just a little too wide. It singes at the edges of his mouth, sharp with the unnecessary stretch. Aziraphale pretends not to notice. Gabriel counts the number of steps he takes as he hurries down the stairs, just to know how many he'll have to wait through while Aziraphale's on the way back up. He invites himself into the bed, sitting down with his hands on his knees. Gripping the hard, bone-firmed skin through his toga. There's some residual anger in his grasp, he realizes, because his fingers have gone pale. Softly shuddering, with tension-wraught veins popping up along the backs of his hands. He's shaking, and he can't quite place why, but he knows it can't be good. 

None of this is good, actually. Not the slightest bit of it. And that - that's confusing. Isn't he supposed to be on a good mission here? Isn't he supposed to be helping Aziraphale, leading him back to justice, to golden salvation? Why should he have to suffer for all his good deeds? Why should he be the one shivering alone in someone else's room, when that creature, that _thing_ is taking up all of Aziraphale's time? He isn't the damned, he isn't the wicked, he deserves better than this. Aziraphale should be on his knees, thanking him for all his kindness. Aziraphale should be loving him just as Gabriel wants to be loved. Why won't he love him? Why won't he reciprocate the _need_ Gabriel can't shake himself of? It isn't fair, he's earned it, he's rightfully earned Aziraphale's love.

"Dearest, are you feeling alright?"

The door is hurried shut as Aziraphale sets their tea tray aside. His voice crackles, and he sounds frightened. Gabriel knows he must be. It floods him with an unwanted shame. He knows better than this, he knows better than to let his wants grow incorrigible. He can't expect anything from somebody who rarely even manages to say his name without stuttering. He's here to protect, not to demand.

All rational thought dissipates when Aziraphale's hand reaches his shoulder. The heat of his skin slips through Gabriel's toga, and his fingers - praise the Lord - his fingers aren't trembling anymore. Not like they were with Crowley. 

"Did I... Have I done something to upset you?" Aziraphale asks. There's an aftertaste of pity in his tone, but Gabriel doesn't mind it. If anything, he appreciates all Aziraphale has to offer. His chest tightens, and his pulse pounds harder with it. Harsh and uneasy, as if his body were deciding whether or not to keep up with the miserable tirade of living. Still, Gabriel resists the urge to curl up and die without ceremony, turning to reassure Aziraphale instead.

"No, no, you're not - I shouldn't be here. It's not your fault." he stammers, stuck in a self-made debacle of unfortunate proportions. He doesn't want to leave, desperately so, but there's something dangerous about being around Aziraphale. His very presence inspires the worst in Gabriel. The needy, the wanting, and the desire to receive. He's never been so earnest to reach the unattainable before. Not like he is with Aziraphale.

"Are you quite sure? You don't seem well. You could stay the night if you're feeling ill." Aziraphale hovers over him like a nagging hen. Pecking and pecking until there's little left for Gabriel to grasp onto in hopes of self restraint. His teeth dig indents in the flesh of his inner cheek. Molars grinding with all the intensity of a being far too big for its human body.

"I can't be near you," he snaps, swerving from the bed. "I have to go. Now."

But Aziraphale's fingers curve around his wrist, just as he'd done with Crowley. And he clings onto him so gently, as if uncertain of when to let go. Gabriel can't handle it anymore. His body is unwilling to process without taking action. He wrenches away from Aziraphale's grasp, and feels the tendons in his hand buckle. It's too rough, he realizes, too strong for someone so fragile. But he can't stop the motion now that he's already been propelled. Aziraphale looks helpless. Confused, and small, and in need of saving. Gabriel came here to save him. He isn't sure if he can do that anymore.

"If you hate me this much, why even come here in the first place?" Aziraphale asks. His eyes downcast, brow wrinkled with an apparent discomfort. His hands clasp together, ringing out their sorrows. And Gabriel's never liked that, but he can't stand to see it again. Not right now, and definitely not like this. 

He lunges forwards without thinking, clutching Aziraphale's face, and diving into an abysmal descent. Mouths slammed together, hot skin against skin. The burning in his chest finally subdues. Inciting a new, different heat to replace it. It asphyxiates him to the point of no return. His thoughts seem utterly banished, gone from the barren plague Gabriel's mind has made itself out to be. He doesn't have to think anymore. He doesn't have to bother with anything.

And it's so gentle, so right. Like a band aid torn just quick enough to stifle the pain, leaving behind only a breathless pause, and consoled worries. He must be molten by now, subsumed in the sweet, clear taste of Aziraphale's lips under his. An arm tucks over the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Gabriel takes the guiding pressure as an invitation, dipping into Aziraphale's mouth with his tongue. It's like basking in the sun, leisurely pacing himself under a cloud-candied sky. He's never been so enamored before. And he understands what it must be like to hunger, to thirst, because this - this is _desperate._

"I've wanted you," he grumbles, tugging Aziraphale's head to the side, and latching upon his throat. He licks at the salt of him, enjoying the supple press of flesh sucked between his teeth. Aziraphale lets out an appreciative hum, bidding more from Gabriel with an extra tilt of his head. He gasps as Gabriel nips into him, unexpectedly sharp.

"wanted you for so long. And now you're mine." he tries to merge his voice into anything but the growl it persists as, praying he doesn't come off too strong. Aziraphale doesn't seem to mind, for his fortune. If anything, he's pushing further into it. Stroking at Gabriel's lust with tiny murmurs of "Yes, yours."

The bed proves useful when Gabriel clambers to press Aziraphale on his back by any means necessary. Legs jammed around his hips in a haphazard, dangly manner. Gabriel's heart is thrumming all the way up his throat, so hard he has to wonder if it might come barrelling out. Aziraphale is precious like this, an unseen treasure. For all the fussing Gabriel's spent over his miscellaneous tendencies, they're nothing compared to how _priceless_ this beauty is. Divine and unsullied, ripe just for him. All pink and pale, flushed from Gabriel's raking eyes, his determined gaze.

"Let me fuck you," Gabriel says. "please."

Aziraphale concedes easily. His legs falling spread, toga pulled up to reveal more flesh than a holy man might see in his entire life. Gabriel, luckily, is anything but a holy man. He's an archangel, _the_ Archangel - and indulgence is only a sin when he says it's so.

"I love you," he mutters, gripping for himself between Aziraphale's thighs, and lining up carefully. "I love you, love you, can't stop thinking about it."

Aziraphale tenses with the first push, gasping as Gabriel spreads him open. Thick and full, insistent in the press of his hips. He ruts inside him, fucking up into the blessed warmth. The softness of Aziraphale's body, made weak and pliant for him. He's all his to have now, all his to use. Available to tear pleasure from, reaping just as much as he's had stolen by that _damned beast._ He won't forgive Crowley for what he's taken. He won't forgive Aziraphale for giving it up, either. But he can still love him. He can still force that love in until there's no way for Aziraphale to avoid it. He will be loved, he'll be _adored,_ and only by the holiest hands. By someone who has the capacity to truly care.

Still, the residual anger peaks at Gabriel's threshold. He can't help taking it out on Aziraphale. Pushing his legs back, and plowing into his slick, perfect cunt. Feeling as it makes Aziraphale shudder and whine, squirming beneath him, his eyes clamped shut. He has to leave an imprint on Aziraphale's body, has to make some mark of himself known. He's grown possessive with hubris, at fault for his own intemperance. But there isn't anything left to stop him now. So long as Aziraphale wants it, he'll deliver. Taking, and taking, and taking until there's nothing left of him to harvest.

He wants to see Aziraphale struggle with him, wants to see him _prove_ how much he's willing to take. He launches his mouth onto the soft spot just below his jaw, breaking blood vessels with teeth and tongue. And - for lack of better terminology - he _resizes._ His cock, that is. Only slightly bigger, just enough for Aziraphale to really feel it. To strain with the stretch of it, the _burn._ Blessed be an angel's virtue, for he's about to ruin Aziraphale's entirely.

And Aziraphale responds accordingly. Hands clawing at Gabriel's back, scraping skin under the curves of his fingernails. He sobs, bucks up for more, with the way he tightens around Gabriel driving them both dizzy. Gabriel can't sustain it any longer, his body breaks the bond for him. Reaching climax before he has the time to do anything more mindless, and pumping Aziraphale full of his cum. It dribbles down his thighs, meeting Gabriel's hips in wet splotches. And it's part of the proof he's always wanted. A definite claim that Aziraphale is his, belonging only to him. His rightful place being stationed at Gabriel's feet, in worship.

He pulls out, and savors the view of the aftermath. Aziraphale, bruised and panting, shuddering on the bed. His thighs are still shaking from it. Gabriel hopes they never stop.

"Well," he grins, enjoying how Aziraphale won't even meet his gaze. "I hope that was as beneficial for you as it was for me."

And he leaves him there. Drying in a mess that isn't his own, and heaving in his chest. 

To say he'd been thoroughly cleansed would be an understatement.


End file.
